by Kristen Paff

A white Crown Vic rounds the traffic circle,
I see the car’s old spot light, a revelation of its former life.

As it passes through to the other side,
I wonder if I’ll make it.

The cop drove a Crown Vic, gave me resources, shelter numbers; told me it will only get worse.

I think about my kids, money, a job; the pleas for forgiveness. But now, I’m always afraid
The cop was right, but I already knew that.

The circle has cleared and it’s my turn to cross.
Carefully, slowly, I begin.

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